Chapter 117: Whispers Around a Traveling Campfire
The caravan smelled like ten kitchens trying to out-perfume each other.
Smoke, spice, a whisper of caramelized sugar—Marron inhaled all of it and felt her pulse settle. After weeks of wilderness and ash, the scent of cooking was its own kind of prayer.
Mokko’s head turned left and right, eyes huge. "Smells like we walked into heaven’s pantry."
Lucy burbled happily from the jar Marron carried at her hip. "Means they have fresh water!"
"Behave, you two," Marron said, grinning despite herself. "If they let us stay, we’re guests."
The camp ahead buzzed with motion: pots bubbling, knives flashing, chefs arguing about salt levels like philosophers debating truth. A banner snapped in the wind—Lumerian Culinary Guild: Road Division.
One of the cooks, a wiry half-elf named Ress, spotted her. "Traveler! You cook?"
"Only when breathing," Marron answered.
That earned her a laugh, and a spot by their communal stove. The fire was clean and blue—a miracle compared to her cart’s dim embers. When she opened its hatch, she winced; the magic core had gone cold. No heat left to spark.
Ress noticed. "Out of fire?"
"Yeah. Think I could borrow yours?"
"That depends," he said with mock solemnity. "What’ll you trade for it?"
Marron thought for a moment, then smiled. "Dinner."
+
She had other recipes tucked in the corners of her heart, but none were as natural as her Aegis Chicken Rice. It was the first recipe that was truly hers, and it was created in Savoria. And it was one of the earliest things that her mother made. The memory returned to her then:
"Some food can soothe your heart even on the worst days," her mother had said as the chicken and onions gently simmered in broth.
"I like it cause it’s sweet," Marron had said. She was still going to school and the worst problem she had was hating math.
Her mother laughed and stroked her head. "Sweet as you, little bird."
+
Marron smiled and started cooking.
She melted fat in the pan until it hissed. Added onion slices—thin as parchment—until they turned translucent and sweet. Next, she put in the chicken thighs with most of the fat trimmed off, but still enough to flavor the broth.
When the meat turned tender, she poured in chicken stock and let it simmer, until the camp craned their heads to inhale the rich, warm smell.
Eggs last, cracked and swirled so they floated into soft, feathery curds. The broth thickened to silk, not armor but comfort. She ladled it over bowls of rice, each serving wreathed in a soft cloud of steam.
"It’s called Aegis Chicken Rice," she said quietly as she set the bowls down. "For when you need to feel safe."
The first to try it was Arda, who’d wandered in from the road crew. He took a cautious spoonful, then another, eyes closing. "Stone and hearth," he murmured. "It’s like being wrapped in a quilt."
The apprentices followed, silence spreading through the group as the food did its work. Shoulders relaxed. Laughter softened. Mokko ate with a grin so wide his ears might’ve lifted. Even Lucy’s jar vibrated with a happy hum.
Ress took a bite last, studying her over the steam. "That," he said slowly, "isn’t defense food. It’s *healing* food."
Marron smiled. "Same thing, sometimes."
Her System dinged.
[Reconnection with Self in Progress.]
"That’s good," Marron mumbled. "the dungeon changed me, but I can still change back."
+
After the meal, as dusk fell, the cooks lingered around the dying fire, swapping stories. Someone mentioned a rumor from Whetvale—a tale about a lone chef who’d survived a mimic dungeon and sealed it herself. They said her courage had inspired guild apprentices to take their craft seriously again.
"Ever hear that one?" Ress asked. "About the dungeon chef?"
Marron kept her eyes on the coals. "Maybe." Then, with a small smile: "Mostly I want to know if I can borrow your stove again tomorrow. My cart’s run out of magic fire."
That earned a round of laughter and a few eager nods. "You can borrow anything if you feed us like that again," Arda said.
+
When the camp finally quieted, Marron sat beside her cart, Lucy’s jar glowing like a lantern, Mokko sprawled snoring by the embers. The firelight flickered across her hands—steady now, not trembling.
Ress passed her a cup of spiced tea before turning in. "Whoever that dungeon chef was," he said softly, "she reminded people what cooking’s really for. Not power. Just... safety."
Marron lifted her cup in a silent toast. "Then she’s done her job."
As he left, she gazed up at the stars. The warmth in her chest wasn’t just the fire—it was purpose, slow-simmered and alive.
Far behind them, somewhere in the dark hills, only ashes remained in Brookville. She gazed into the fire, as if it could reveal what happened. The silent crackling was comforting, and she hoped that Alexander and the younger mimics were all right.
That’s a weird thing to think about. Marron thought as she ate her chicken rice. I spent some time among the monsters and now worry about them.
She could always learn more about it later--Marron knew how powerful the grapevine could be. For now, she leaned back against her cart and listened to its faint, contented hum.
"We’re still alive," she said softly. "to cook another day. Still here."
+
Lumeria rose from the plains like a mirage built from glass and appetite.
Even from the road, Marron could see the shimmer of its towers—spiraled steel and mirrored stone catching the morning light and scattering it in shades of rose-gold and mint. Neon sigils danced along the rooftops, flickering from one color to another in a rhythm that looked almost alive, as if the city itself breathed through light.
"By the forge," Mokko muttered, shielding his eyes. "Do they polish the air here?"
Lucy’s jar bobbed in Marron’s satchel, the slime within stretching upward to peer through the transparent glass. "Everything’s so shiny. Even the dirt sparkles!"
"That’s probably on purpose," Marron said. "Like crystallized sugar in the streets...which is pretty wasteful, but..." she had to admit it looked so pretty.
As they passed through the gates, even the guards looked like they’d stepped out of a painting. They all had smooth skin, tailored uniforms, and perfect posture. Their armor gleamed brighter than silverware, and their smiles were the exact same practiced curve.
The smell hit next. Not the warm, grounding aroma of bread or beef and chicken stock, but a layered perfume. Marron almost sneezed when she smelled citrus glaze, candied smoke, and something floral that reminded Marron uncomfortably of soap. It made her stomach feel hollow.
Vendors lined the streets, each stall bursting with colors that seemed to defy nature: violet noodles, turquoise pastries, drinks that glowed faintly from within. The plating was immaculate. Each dish set out like jewelry and each vendor dressed like a model from a culinary magazine.
Marron slowed near one cart selling "Truffle Cloud Rice" topped with shimmering petals. The vendor’s cheeks were dusted with rosy pink blush and gold glitter,. with his hair slicked into an artful wave.
He beamed at her and Marron’s heart beat double-time.
"First time in Lumeria, traveler? This one’s trending across the Inner Circle."
+
Marron paid, out of curiosity.
The rice was soft, yes. The truffle aroma was there. But the flavor—flat. The salt uneven. The sauce glossy and cold beneath its glow. Pretty enough to paint, tasteless enough to forget.
Lucy murmured from her jar, "Is it supposed to taste like nothing?"
Mokko grimaced as he swallowed his own bite. "I’ve had better stew in a mine bucket."
Marron’s expression stayed neutral. "They cook for eyes, not for mouths."
The vendor blinked, caught off guard by her tone, but she only smiled politely and returned the empty bowl. "Thank you. It’s beautiful work."
As they walked on, Mokko muttered, "You didn’t have to be so nice."
"I don’t like making cooks feel bad," Marron said, dusting off her hands.
Mokko blinked. "Even a bad cook?"
"Well," Marron said quietly, "he can still perfect his craft with time. Everyone had to start somewhere."
+
The Culinary Guild stood at the heart of the city, its façade a cathedral of culinary excess.
Columns shaped like whisks flanked the entrance; fountains spouted streams of liquid chocolate; glass panels shimmered with holographic recipes that floated and rearranged themselves every few seconds. A massive sign hung over the door in pulsing gold light:
THE GRAND CULINARY GUILD OF LUMERIA — WHERE FLAVOR ASCENDS
Lucy pressed against the side of her jar. "It’s... huge."
"Flashy," Mokko corrected. "Looks more like a parade than a kitchen."
They weren’t wrong. Inside, the main hall spread out in a riot of color and motion. Chefs wore uniforms tailored like high fashion—lapels embroidered with metallic thread, aprons cut to flatter. Even the knives gleamed like jewelry.
And yet, beneath the shimmer, there was something real. Marron could smell it—beneath the perfume of polish and oil, faint traces of honest cooking: seared meat, sugar caramelizing, yeast rising in warm air. A buried heart beating under silk.
At the registration table, a tall woman with sleek silver hair and crimson eyeliner looked them over. "Applicants?"